Home is a Second Chance by eris_of_imladris

Chapter 1

He sighed as he checked the trap. It was empty, again, save for a few small bugs scuttling on the rope system he had rigged. Not quite resigned to giving up, he left the ropes in place, although part of him was sure that the animals knew he had set it up there, that they avoided it and laughed at him and whispered at his daring.

The bugs would not be enough, but he popped them in his mouth, wincing at the sour crunch of the beetle. What else was nearby? He had been in this place long enough to know that there were no plants left to comb, not even flowers with sweet-tasting petals to tide him over.

It was at times like these that he considered approaching the settlements. Surely, the peasants would not know of him. Surely, they would take him in and give him a crusty loaf of bread, and at the thought he salivated as he recalled the smell of bread burning. His father had never quite gotten the knack of it.

The thought of his father made him shake his head, dismissing the idea once again. It was foolish to even consider it. Yes, he had not been seen in quite some time, but legends were told from parents to children, and he was sure even now that he would recognize figures from the stories his father used to tell him when he was a boy, sitting at the edge of the bed and smelling the comforting soot of his father’s workplace.

It was for this reason that he could not risk it. If anyone recognized him, even though they might know him from a mere story, he would have to disappear once again, and that was difficult without a horse or the stamina lent by a well-fed belly, and fighting off the inevitable ones who would want to test his strength would be difficult without a weapon. In days of yore, he would have had it all, and more – he never knew hunger before the fire took his last brother – but with his hands so twisted and scarred, the rope traps took the function to the extreme. There was no hope of recovery, so there was no hope of getting the knotted flesh to do anything, especially with the pain that crept on the edges of his mind whenever he stopped moving for too long, clawing at his memories, urging him to look out at the horizon at the sea which he followed more than he had ever cleaved to any religion.

He had thought, long ago, of the sea, of the way it could snuff out his breath, and surely the pain of the water would be no more than what his hands gave him daily. But then he had remembered his mother, and that was no longer an option for him. She needed to know a child was alive, even if he was in an exile that was unlikely to ever end.

He cast his eyes upon the sea as he kicked the hide he used for his bedroll up into his hands, sliding a loose thong of leather over what he could gather. He plunged his hands into a nearby creek, watching the red scars ripple under the moving water. His eyes caught a small silver fish, but his hands were too slow, and as he tried to clasp the slippery scales, a muscle contracted, and he could not resist a grunt of pain.

The sound broke the forest’s silence, and he knew he needed to move on, on the off chance there were any guards about. He stuck to the sea, clinging on the rocks as he made his way up a steeper slope. It was a risk, but no smaller than dying of starvation in the woods, and the pain in his hands kept him anchored to the rocks, their jagged surfaces fitting well enough in the pitted scar in the center of his right hand to ensure his safety.
When he made it to the top, a westerly wind ruffled his hair, and he watched a squirrel scuttle up a tree with a smile on his face. Fire was painful in more ways than one, but it would be worth it for a bit of meat. He slung his bedroll down onto the ground and took out another of his many ropes before he froze at the sound of a shout.

“Halt, in the name of the king!”

A guardswoman from the city? Although he was far enough away from the city that the guards’ resources would be best deployed elsewhere. He took a look as she clambered over the rocks. She was no guardswoman, he realized thanks to her lack of uniform, and the tiniest edge of panic in her voice. A noblewoman, perhaps, although what noblewoman would be out here on the cliff’s edge, so close to the sea that he could taste its salty sting?

He stood in place as she approached. He thought of running, but the glint of a knife at her side kept his feet locked. His mother. He had to live for his mother. Six sons dead, one alive, he could not risk this on the whim of a girl, especially not one who had an all-too-familiar fire in her eyes.

His first wild thought was she looked like his son, but then he could not decide which one. Was it the elder, wise and solemn, like the gaze peering at him with equal parts intimidation and curiosity? Or was it the younger, brash and impudent, like her confident feet on the cliffside and the way her hair flew in the breeze? She had both of their coloring, both of their presence.

“I did not know,” he said, his voice sounding strange, like his brother before the flames swallowed him. He cleared his throat twice. “Forgive me, I will be on my way.”

“How did you even get up here?” she asked. “There is no way out here save for the king’s gardens, and those are guarded meticulously.”

“I climbed,” he answered.

“Not many could survive a climb like that,” she replied, a question in her voice that he was unwilling to answer.